A Cat May Gaze on a King
by unwinding fantasy
Summary: Who is this Madame Henry, this woman strong enough to claim Javert's last thought? Not romantic. Complete


**Title: **_A Cat May Gaze on a King _(or formerly _First Impressions_)  
**Author: **unwinding fantasy (aka Aqua Phoenix1)  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Les Mis._ Too bad for me.  
**Rating: **K  
**Author's Note: **So this idea came to me after reading point ten of Javert's suicide note. I started wondering just exactly who Madame Henry was -- he seemed to speak of her as if she was something he actually cared about (or perhaps in Javert's case, someone he found tolerable). So I delved into what I imagined their initial meeting.

* * *

The day he came to Toulon was the same day she lost her favourite necklace. Not that the disappearance of a useless piece of jewellery is comparable to the day one first meets a man such as he, but that was simply the way she remembered it. 

He walked through the wrought iron gates as if he owned the place, walking directly past the guards posted at the entrance without so much as a second glace. Though when she thought about it, _walk _was hardly the way you would describe this particular individual's movements; he more or less glided across the cobblestone pathway. His uniform, which was the first thing she noticed about him, was entirely immaculate. From the carefully laced boots right down to the very last brass button of his coat. This coat gave the illusion of largeness and though it was true this young man towered over most, he was not very broad. His was a kind of lean muscled strength, not like the huge bulk of your stereotypical convict, and the taut ponytail constricting long hazel locks was anything but ragged. In short, this man was the epitome of neatness. Everything about him, including his speech as the woman was soon to discover, was curt and clean.

He stepped into the entrance hall, in that single moment memorising everything about the room, then suddenly stopped as though he had finally realised he hadn't a clue in the world where he was. Bushy eyebrows came together, etching the beginnings of wrinkles on his wide forehead as he crossed his arms in what may have been taken for defiance. If there was any, it was only towards his own pitiful reasoning: he did not like asking for help but that seemed to be the only logical thing to do in his situation. Arriving at this conclusion, the man snapped back to attention, uncrossing his arms then straightening his cuffs with the fluidity of one whom had been practicing the habit for many years. His daunting figure crossed the room in three great strides and he was standing directly in front of her, his cold gravestone-coloured eyes boring into her own green ones.

Madame Henry was a curious woman, and by curious we do not mean strange; she was inquisitive by nature. Up until a few minutes ago, she had been preoccupied with a newspaper she had purchased on the way to the prison; the headlines were screaming rebellion. She had arrived uncharacteristically early that morning so had seated herself on a small stool in the corner of the entrance hall and sifted through various articles, all of which uninterested her – the thought that being ahead of schedule may please her superiors never crossed her mind. That was all before this stranger had entered the room, this unfamiliar man who was now standing uncomfortably close to her. Had she been standing, he would have been at least two head taller than she; because she was sitting the difference was even greater. Regardless of the situation, she smiled politely up at the handsome yet undeniably imposing man, shamelessly tossing unruly hair from her face in a mock display of courage as she asked, "Can I help you, monsieur?"

"Javert. I'm here to see the head warden."

"Certainly, monsieur. He's in his office."

She continued to stare politely (or as polite as one can be when staring) into his face, clearly expecting something more, and when she received nothing it dawned on her that in his own awkward way, this man had asked for directions to the warden's office. It was some time before Madame Henry realised that this snippet of information was all she would be able to draw from him, and that it was all he deemed necessary for her to know: his name and the reason for his presence here. Speaking of which, she had no idea if Javert was his first name or last. This irked her some, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks as she added, "I can show monsieur the way, if it pleases him."

Javert nodded affirmation, his long hair dancing behind him like a cat's anxious tail, his eyes constantly flicking to the side at the slightest sound. _Why so nervy? _she wondered, then mentally scolded herself for attempting to pry into people's private lives. Once again, Madame Henry smiled courteously before rising from the wooden stool to her full height. She folded the newspaper neatly and placed it on the chair before it slid off onto the floor where it collapsed into a messy bundle. She briskly walked a little way down the hall then paused and signalled for the tall man to follow. It was an empty gesture. No one needed to tell Javert anything twice.

She tried to remain indifferent but her brisk pace and clipped tone gave her away. This Javert had demanded her attention from the moment he had stepped into the room and considering nothing out of the ordinary ever seemed to happen at Toulon, this new arrival was cause for excitement, something that could lighten the miserably uniform prison life. This rare occasion would be the topic of conversation amongst the inmates for at least a week. She had best keep a close eye on them, though judging from the tall man that was presently walking unbearably close behind her she had little cause for concern.

Javert recognised from her flushed face that he had once again succeeded in ruffling a few feathers, but resisted commenting on this. He instead opted to plunge one hand into a pocket of his great coat and toyed with the small box he always kept there, tracing his thumb along the fine etchings of the silver lid. He noted the many corridors of the prison; a map of the facility was slowly being constructed in his mind as he ignored with practiced ease the delicate curve of the shoulders before him. Women never particularly intrigued him, though the heady scent of her choice of perfume was questionable; if inhaled for too long Javert had no doubt the alluring fragrance's effects would rival that of his own snuff.

Snorting at his train of thought, the large man only just stopped himself from crashing into the slight woman who had came to a halt outside what he took to be the head warden's office. His left arm flew from his pocket as he tried to regain his balance, barely brushing against the small of her waist before Javert realised what was happening and hastily straightened, blinking just once. The entire scene played out in a matter of seconds, though Madame Henry remained frozen for a moment later than she should have. By the time she had reasserted her position, his arms had returned to their place across his chest, his cool gaze fixed on her; she barely managed to conceal her disgruntled scowl.

"Here it is, monsieur," she rushed as she smoothed out the wrinkles that disturbed her clean dress, now wanting nothing more than to get away from him. Javert studied the door and she almost rolled her eyes frustration for his lack of trust. Madame Henry had never been good with men and this one was about as agreeable as Seine water.

"_Merci_," was all he said, a dismissal more than genuine thanks, his face again carved from stone. With a private frown, Madame Henry made to leave before his even tone called her back. "You left this," Javert's outstretched arm more than covered the distance between them. The woman regarded the object as he had the door, slender eyebrows furrowed with undisguised puzzlement before accepting it. She would have liked to believe even a ghost of a smile had played upon his pursed lips as he knocked on the door and, after being called in, disappeared within the room's confines. The woman was left staring pointlessly at the thing she grasped between white knuckled hands:

A newspaper.


End file.
